March 25th, 2009

I dreamed I was invited to speak about my amazing cancer experience at a corporate meeting.  When I arrived, the room was poorly lit with large columns that blocked my view of the audience, a chaotic group.  They were milling around, talking and laughing.  I inquired of my host as to when the speaking should begin, but he was uncertain and didn't seem to want to find out, joining the others, leaving me unattended.  I stepped up to the podium on my own but no one noticed.  I grabbed the microphone from the stand and began to walk from side to side on the small riser, searching for a spot where I could best see my audience, who apparently had very little interest in seeing or hearing from me.  I couldn't find my notes.  I asked for directions to the bathroom and was directed to a large room with furniture, a small kitchen and a few toilets right out in the open.  Upon my return to the stage, I decided to begin my speech.  Not a person in the large room stopped to listen.  So I changed my tone and demanded their attention, firmly saying it was obvious that they were not interested in a stock inspirational story about disease and remarkable recovery.  I offered to tell them the real story, the uncensored version.  That seemed to be of possible interest.  So I began by telling them that my father was a fighter pilot, I was raised around the world, and the environment of our home revolved around sex.  From that point forward, they listened.  Dream over.

Some dreams are difficult to interpret.  This one wasn't.  With the launch of my memoir, Silver Platter Girl, coming up in the next few weeks, I have been struggling with the decision to open up the most personal, intimate details of my life story to the public.  My husband asked me why I felt the need to do it now, 13 years after my recovery from cancer.  He believed my healing, both from the disease and sexual abuse which were one and the same to me, to be complete.  He would accept it if I said that telling my story was the final step in the long healing process, but would be sad if that were true.  We had been through enough as a family.  He had hoped it was enough.  But it wasn't.  It isn't.  And that knowledge comes from a place that is not intellectual, but entirely intuitive.  It is the same internal voice that told me that my tumor was filled with the life-long residue of being victimized by sexual abuse, that by removing the tumor and cleaning out my soul through a transformational bone marrow transplant, I would be well.  This would be a physical, emotional and spiritual healing.  And it was.

Abuse of any kind has a way of robbing its victim of their voice.  I know how difficult it can be to tell.  Sexual abuse adds another difficult component.  It is a subject that is not easily discussed, especially when the sex involves a father and a daughter.  Or a parishoner and a priest.  Or a teacher and a student.  In such cases, it can be like losing your voice in two ways.  Our silence, a legitimate result of the terrible wrongdoing we have endured, empowers the abusers and allows the cycle to continue.  In many cases, from generation to generation. 

My story is that rare instance in which my voice has not only been recovered, but engaged.  My voice comes not from a place of anger or revenge, but from a place of hope and healing.  It is a difficult story to tell, no doubt controversial and prone to criticism from those who would prefer that telling never be an option.  But I know my own story better than I know anything.  I acknowledge it, accept it, embrace it, and believe it.  In that belief comes certainty that my voice can become our voice, a collective voice, of faith in the potential of our own empowerment. 

Back to the dream.  That the audience only became interested when the true story began to unfold says that some will be interested in the sexual content of the book for the wrong reason.  But at the same time, it was a sign that the truth will engage the room, for whatever reason.  Once the words are read, the message has a chance to get through, no matter what originally interested the reader.  The bathrooms being out in the open room simply represent the sacrifice of privacy, and the perception of safety, that is made when you tell.  The dream ending abruptly once the truth telling began signals that everything after that step needs no further exploration.  The truth is its own direction. 

And so I will release Silver Platter Girl very soon.  And by doing so, I will stand for all of us who have a story to tell, even if we aren't sure of its content quite yet.  I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the anger of those who are part of my story and have always held an unspoken belief that I would never disclose the truth.  I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the inevitable criticism of those who will say that I wasn't abused enough and am using it as an excuse to justify my past behaviors.  I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the guilt over the discomfort my husband and two sons will feel as our personal lives are presented in a public forum.  I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the sting of those who will say that I am a bad person for what I have written.  And I will overcome, to the best of my ability, any doubt that this is the right thing to do.  I will have faith that the truth is our most powerful weapon in the struggle to regain ourselves.  This is my dream.

SPG